Twelve.

"She touched me," his voice was soft and reverent, as though praying. The flickering gaze was set fixedly on the crook of his arm where her small delicate hand had rested but his guest could not see the astonishment reflecting in them. Nadir sat in the plush armchair typically reserved for the young ingenue and yawned, covering his bearded mouth with the back of his hand, the other holding a saucer that held a steadily cooling cup of coffee, still eying the man's back apprehensively. "On her own accord, she reached out and—"

"Let her go," Nadir advised evenly.

"Damn you!" The man burst out, turning to look at his guest with impatient hostility. "I tell you, she chooses to stay here. I cannot control the girl's will."

"Of course you can. I've seen you do it," the Persian countered calmly, setting the saucer down on the table beside him and standing. "This is a dangerous game you're playing, my friend."

When no answer from the man's rigid back, Nadir finally took his leave. Once the door clicked shut, the stiff posture drooped and hunched in defeat, and masked face dropped into gloved hands. There was quiet throughout the house for a moment before a string of maddened notes ripped through the silence.


With her heels propped up on the iron rods supporting the mattress and elbows resting on her knees, Christine was hunched over with arms crossed over her bowed head. Uncontrollable trembling had ceased to rack her small frame and she had finally stopped her teeth from chattering, but her mind was still a whirlwind of self-reprimand and uncontrollable disappointment towards her maestro.

She had never been treated in such a way before. Most of the people close to her treated her as though she was fine china—never prodding too roughly, never speaking too harshly, even in situations where she might have been in the wrong. She had undoubtedly been in the wrong in this instance, and she was thoroughly humiliated. But for an Angel, sent from the holy refuge of Heaven to teach her, to react in such an alarmingly intense fashion was unnerving.

It was difficult to form coherent arguments in her mind. Aside from the shame and overwhelming fear that had begun to subside, there was indignation—her arm was still in pain and there was no doubt bruises would form. How dare he—? Was this the temperament of her heavenly-sent guardian? Was that the reason he was so determined to act aloof, for her own safety?

Propping her head up on her palm, Christine halfheartedly wiped at her eyes and nose, both red from crying. She had felt so safe the night previous and now, if it were not for the crippling fear of letting her father down, she would have liked to flee the premises. But was that true? Would she willingly abandon the chance of hearing the exquisite music that flowed from her Angel'? It hardly mattered. She was chosen and she had an obligation.

In this way, her head spun. Attempts to clear it only left her hovering in a different position in her bedroom, lost in thought again while staring into the mirror or out of the window. The latter position was where the Angel found her, knocking lightly on the door before opening it slowly and uncertainly. Something about the image was familiar, as though she could recall the same thing happening in a vague dream—or nightmare.

At the intrusion, she stood. She wasn't sure what had compelled her to do so. They regarded each other from across the room. The dull ache and the strong will of Auntie Valerius silenced her from launching into apologies.

"It seems that," he began in a quietly reserved tone before faltering and she caught a determined flash of gold behind the mask but lost it again the fading daylight. With a more authoritative air, he announced, "It's time that you went home, Christine."

He must have seen the color leave her face because in a matter of seconds she was being supported with hesitant ease. It was hard to find air and it took her moment to realize that there were already words tumbling out from her numb lips. "I never meant to snoop, it was wrong and childish and," she was apologizing imploringly, "and I'm so sorry, you've been nothing but kind to me and please, I can't—" an edge began to enter her pleading that bordered on hysteria and she gripped the fine material of the coattails— "I can't disappoint him, please don't leave me! Please!"

She saw the white mask swim above her as she was lowered to sit on the bed. With continued gentility, her maestro untangled his attire from her small white frenzied fingers with his own dextrous gloved hands. Her wide blue eyes followed him with alarmed terror, as though he could disappear altogether at any given moment. After all, that was what had happened with her father. She had never even said goodbye.

"Christine," the beautiful voice reasoned, calming her despite the evident shock towards her reaction of his announcement.

Her hands were still resting in his and they enveloped hers easily, despite the thinness of the digits. Her own were fair but slightly rough from working from the age of sixteen and housework previous to that, even the tips calloused from years of guitar playing. But she had never seen the Angel's skin, not even a segment, not even for a moment. With difficulty, she focused in on his words and their meaning.

"You have done nothing wrong," he assured. She could see the truth of the statement reflected in his eyes and realized his was kneeling before her. Still, she only had to bend her head slightly due to his height. Before she could argue, he fervently continued, "How could you have? You are nothing but goodness—pure and kind, tolerant and thoughtful. My behavior was unacceptable. I hope you will come to forgive me."

The loathing that had seeped into the apology so suddenly, the minute the inspection had been turned onto his character, alarmed her. "It is time for you to go home because your Aunt and the others will be expecting it," he explained as an afterthought, and a wave of relief flooded her senses.

"Oh!" She replied, seeing the rumpled fabric of his suit coat and realizing how dramatic her reaction had been. Would she ever cease feeling mortified in his presence? He stood, very softly releasing her hands as though he were handling delicate flowers, and adjusted the suit with one smoothing motion. The movement was fluid and expert, and astonishingly human. "I am sorry. I'm not all...goodness. I'm clumsy, a-and too curious."

To her unending surprise, the voice behind the mask laughed outright at her meek attempt to undermine her own innocent wholeness, but the chuckle was weighted and nipping. "Yes, both irredeemable faults," he replied with dark dripping satire. "Both worthy of verbal abuse. No, Christine, you will come to learn that the fault never lies with you. I can only hope, as I said, that you will come to forgive me."

This silenced her and she merely gazed up at his imposing figure dolefully before allowing them both the relief of a change of topic by asking, "Am I leaving tonight?"

The Angel returned her gaze from his height and replied unhappily, "Yes, I believe that would be best."

And so, with little luggage and fewer parting words from Elmira and the rest, Christine found herself in the same vehicle that had transported them to the opera, sitting in the spacious seat alone, feeling silly for allowing herself one last dismayed glance back at the beautiful expansive home of her Angel of Music. The ride was uneventful and dark, with woods enveloping the car for miles. She allowed herself a small nap for the majority of the trip, music enveloping her in her dreams once again, and awoke in Seattle, her hometown, feeling rested albeit a bit downtrodden. Despite the mysterious warnings and the one moment of indiscretion, her pleasant experiences with her maestro outweighed the negative, and she found herself missing the house, the servants, and him.

But the sight of Auntie Valerius' building in Fremont distracted her from those thoughts. She had missed this area. The university was sprawling and filled with students, but no campus was as eclectic as the town where she grew up. And no one, she realized happily as she stepped from the car, was as eclectic as her aunt. She turned to thank the driver, but the car was already pulling away. A small black purse containing one thick novel about the French revolution she had absorbed herself in the past few weeks and her cellphone—which she had not looked at or even seen in quite some time and most likely had messages from many upset people—was all that she had carried. To anyone but Auntie Valerius, returning from visiting a friend with little to nothing to show for it would be considered odd.

Clad in jeans, a plain white tee, sandals, and the purse, she trudged up the stone steps and knocked on the familiar door. The act felt strange. For years, she had simply burst into the house and up the entryway stairs to her room without a second thought. For a moment, she hovered uncertainly on the landing, before the door swung open to reveal the beaming face of her aunt. She wore paint-splattered overalls under a flour-splotched black apron, her long straight gray hair pulled up into a haphazard bun, and a pair of spectacles. Christine always had the feeling that her aunt constantly felt younger than Christine ever had.

"My baby!" She welcomed, enveloping the young girl into a warm hug before leading her inside, one arm around her small shoulders.

"Hi, Auntie V," Christine answered with a laugh, taking in the home.

The stairs led upstairs where two rooms and a full bathroom were stationed, one room being her aunts and the other a guest bedroom more often than not filled by Christine. To their left was an entrance to the dining room and further forward would by an entrance to the living room, which was attached. Straight ahead was an opening to the kitchen, where warm smells were floating from. All the furniture was plush and all of the walls were lined with paintings and photographs of family and of professional sorts. As they walked towards the kitchen, she saw a Christmas tree twinkling in the living room and experienced a moment of utter confusion—how was it that she couldn't remember the date? Was it December or had she missed the month entirely and stumbled into the new year? She willed herself not to panic outright. A glance at a calendar pinned by the refrigerator told her it was December 29th and that she had not missed the new year, but had missed Christmas.

What a strange holiday for an Angel to ignore.

She allowed herself to lie easily when Auntie V asked if she would like to sleep after her trip home and went upstairs to drop ungracefully into the bed that had for years been hers. The bedroom walls were still lavender from her residence. There was never anywhere she had felt more welcome and loved than this house, even slightly understood despite her aunts tendency to forget particulars. But now she felt like a guest and she could not discern if it was because she had slowly made a home in her previous residence or because, as time tends to dictate, Christine had grown older and the house where she had grown up was now more of a sweet memory than a present home.


a/n: tick tock tick tock.
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